


The Ghost of Kevin Past

by Safiyabat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Major character death - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 01:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Safiyabat/pseuds/Safiyabat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kevin makes a repeat appearance at the Bunker to get Dean on track.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ghost of Kevin Past

**Author's Note:**

> This is in response to an anonymous prompt from tumblr: I want recent Dean to meet just-before-pilot Sam. I want him see the ways he changed and the things that didn't change. 
> 
> I made it a Christmas fic. And a death fic, And I'm sorry.
> 
> Supernatural and the characters from the show are not my property. I make no money from this or any other work of fan fiction.

Dean wasn’t a big dreamer. He dreamed, but he didn’t dream big. Because he wasn’t psychic (unlike his giant of a brother) his dreams had always tended to be more of the comforting variety than the portentous variety. Because he was a grunt (unlike his giant of a brother, who had no earthly right being a giant and a genius) he rarely found himself plagued by the “get-this-through-your-head” type of dream. He had soothing dreams. Fishing and strip clubs, that was what Dean dreamed about. Oh, he had nightmares. He had plenty of nightmares. You didn’t come back from Hell without having nightmares – well, you didn’t come back from Hell as a general rule, let alone come back from an apprenticeship to Hell’s version of Picasso. Then there had been Purgatory. But his dreams had never had more meaning than just… processing and cleanup, nothing else. Frankly he liked it that way, because he’d seen what Sammy’s dreams did to him.

Sammy would never dream again. 

Tonight Dean lay down to sleep in the empty bunker – he didn’t think of the captive demon in the dungeon as company. He was silent anyway, or at least couldn’t be heard in the distant confines of Dean’s bedroom. His slumber had been liberally aided by some amber-colored liquid from a large clear bottle. It had been a long time since he’d needed that kind of help to get to sleep, or rather since he’d accepted that kind of help to get to sleep. Ever since… well, ever since everything had gone to crap he’d just stopped fighting it. What was he holding off for? Was it going to solve anything? Was it going to bring back Kevin? Was it going to undo whatever the botched spell had done to Sammy? Screw sobriety, that was his motto. It wasn’t like there was anyone left to care. 

He lay down in his memory foam and closed his eyes. Wrapped up nicely in his comforter he fell asleep almost immediately – that was the benefit of self-medicating – but his eyes flew open almost immediately too. A bright light filled the room, dimming down until a familiar form coalesced before him. “Hi, Dean,” Kevin smirked. 

Dean sat up. Other than the kind of unearthly glow – the kid looked like a nerdy teenaged flashlight with a Santa hat – he looked good. Better than he had in the entire time the Winchesters had known him, actually. “Kevin!” he exclaimed, blinking. “Uh, hi. You, uh, you look…”

“Not smoldering. Yeah, I know. That’s the thing about being a ghost, Dean. You don’t really look like an angel burned you out from the inside anymore.” He paused. “You don’t really feel like it either. Which is good, because I gotta tell you, that isn’t fun.” 

Dean looked around. “That – um, no, I guess it wouldn’t be.” He paused. “If you’re a ghost, how are you here?” He swallowed. “I mean, the bunker is pretty heavily warded, you know?”

“Oh, we’re not there. Not really. You’re dreaming.” He gave a grim little grin.

“I’m dreaming?”

“Yeah. You’re dreaming. Do you have any idea what day today was?” 

“Tuesday?” 

“December twenty-fourth.”

“Okay.” He waited patiently.

“That’s Christmas Eve, Dean.”

“Oh.” 

The ghost’s shoulders slumped. “When’s the last time you guys celebrated Christmas, Dean?” 

“Maybe… 2007? I don’t know. Right before I died that first time.” 

“Six years ago? Seriously? You know there are boxes of Christmas decorations in that storage room Sam sleeps in, right? Slept in, anyway. They’re clearly labeled. ‘Christmas Decorations – Not Cursed.’ Right there on the boxes in the closet he doesn’t – didn’t – use.” Kevin crossed his arms across his chest.

“Look, we aren’t exactly holiday guys. We don’t really do the whole… I mean, we’re together all the time, all the freaking time, but we don’t do that kind of togetherness, you know?” He shifted uncomfortably. “So, you doing okay? The afterlife treating you well and everything?” 

He shrugged. “I’m not doing too badly, all things considered. I mean, I’m dead, which kind of sucks. But I don’t have to translate anything, which is good. Unfortunately I still have to do the occasional job for God, which is why I’m here tonight trying to help you even though you killed me.”

Dean blinked. “You think I killed you?”

“You stuffed an evil angel into your unwilling brother, Dean. Yeah. I mean, that angel did the deed, but he wouldn’t have been able to do it if you hadn’t let him in, given him free run of the place. You were supposed to keep me safe. You were supposed to keep Sam safe. Instead we’re both dead.”

“Have you seen him? In Heaven, I mean?”

“No. I’m afraid not. No one has. I met up with your friend Ash, I told him that Sam was gone and he told me that he hadn’t showed up upstairs. I don’t know what that means. Maybe he’s… in the other place. Maybe whatever the douchebag angel that stole his body did sent him someplace else. Or maybe it just obliterated him completely, like what happens when angels die. They just cease to be, complete oblivion.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. Anyway. My job here tonight is to show you some things. Think of me as a much cooler Jacob Marley, only I’m the other guys too.” 

“Wait, like that Dickens story?”

“Tis the season and all. Come on, Dean. The sooner we get this over with the sooner I can get back to Heaven and get on with my afterlife. I can marathon Skyrim for like days on end without having to get up to pee, man. It’s awesome. Up and at ‘em.” 

Dean thought about resisting. “I guess the sooner I get this over with the sooner I can get back to fishing and strippers,” he decided, getting out of bed. “Lead on, MacDuff.” 

Kevin side-eyed him. “Are you going to, I don’t know, put on some pants or something?”

“It’s a dream. Who cares?”

The kid pulled such a bitchface that it gave Dean chills. “It’s not like they can’t see you, Dean. It’s not exactly a normal dream.”

“Were you training with Sammy to get faces like that?” He grabbed the bathrobe from its hook on the door. 

“No, you’re just that inspirational.” 

The ghost grabbed Dean’s hand and they walked out the door. On the other side was sunshine. There was sunshine and co-eds and warmth. Dean looked around. “What the Hell, man? This is… this is Palo Alto. That’s Sammy’s apartment building, isn’t it? But it burned.”

“Yeah.” Kevin nodded at a tall, slender figure approaching from the direction of campus. “Heads up.” 

Dean’s whole heart gave a sudden terrible, painful wrench. “Sammy,” he whispered. 

“Yeah. That’s Sam. How come neither of you ever told me that he went to Stanford, Dean? That he even went to college, never mind someplace like Stanford on a full ride?”

“I figured it was his story to tell. I don’t know why he never told you. Maybe it was too painful. Maybe he didn’t want to look like he was trying to minimize your disappointment about getting sucked into the life or anything.” He snorted. “You and he had a lot in common, Kev.”

“Well, we’re both dead, so there’s that.”

“Kid dies like every other year.” The hunter tried to shrug it off.

“Not like this, Dean, and you know it. Come on. Go talk to him.”

“What? Are you crazy? Won’t it like cross the streams or create a paradox or something?”

“No, stupid. It’s a dream, not actual time travel. Come on. Let’s get it over with.”

The spirit led the way, but Sam had already seen them. He’d already seen them and was jogging in their direction. “Dean?” he greeted, a huge dimpled smile splitting his face wide open. He opened his arms and threw them around his brother. Dean blinked for a moment, unsure how to respond. When they’d actually reunited he’d gotten “What the hell are you doing here?” Of course, he’d just broken into his house. “Oh my God, it is so good to see you!”

Even then, before the hulked-out Super Sammy, the kid had been strong. “Gotta breathe, Sammy,” Dean gasped. “Gotta breathe.”

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just… it’s been so long, you know?” He took a step back. “Um, you’re not wearing any… “

“Oh yeah, we’re travelling through time in a dream. Just figured I’d drop in to see how you’re doing. You know. This is my friend Kevin. He’s a prophet.” What the hell, it was a dream. “Was a prophet. Now he’s a ghost. But a good ghost. Not a vengeful ghost, on account of that whole prophet thing.” 

Sam nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said carefully as Kevin gave a tight smile. “Well, how about we get you inside, I’ve got some beers in the fridge just in case. Jess is at class right now but I’m sure she’d love to meet you.” He put an arm around Dean’s shoulders and gently guided him toward his building. You’d almost never have known that he was trying to keep him from running off and acting out. 

And maybe that wasn’t all he was doing, because inside he still seemed to want to keep physical contact with Dean in some way. He got beers for them all, but he took his seat beside Dean and their shoulders touched. It was hard for them not to, actually. This Sam didn’t hunch. He stood tall, loose, easy. His shoulders were back and his head was high. He laughed easily, whether it was at Dean’s jokes or just at Dean. Even Kevin couldn’t help but stare.

They stayed for another beer. Sam ordered them a pizza. Not that he ate much of the pizza himself, Dean noticed after he’d downed three slices himself. Sam had taken one slice, picked off all the pepperoni in a slow and laborious process, and spent more time fidgeting with the crust than actually eating. He had carefully steered the conversation, too, and entirely without appearing to. Dean had no more idea now what his brother had been up to at Stanford than he had actually when Sam had been at Stanford. When he got up to use the facilities he took a look around. He saw books, which he expected, but he didn’t see anything else that really screamed “Sam Winchester lives here.” Anything decorative clearly belonged to Jess. Anything personal was distinctively feminine. 

But… this had been home, for him. Right? He’d tried to call it home, anyway. But here and now his eyes followed Dean around the room, like they were drinking him up. Like he’d been parched.

It seemed way too soon that Kevin put a hand on Dean’s shoulder and rose. “It’s time to go, Dean,” he said. “We’ve got a lot more to get through tonight.”

“Oh, come on,” Sam objected, rising. “I haven’t seen him in two goddamn years, can’t he stay a little longer?” The younger Winchester had moved to stand between Kevin and Dean. 

“Sorry, Sam. Maybe he’ll be able to come back to this moment another time, but if he’s going to be able to help you in the waking world he’s got work to do.” Kevin smirked. “And the rock salt rounds in the sawed-off aren’t going to do much. It’s a dream.” 

A bright light filled the room and suddenly Dean and Kevin were elsewhere. Dean sagged against the cheap motel wall. “Kev, that was –“ 

“Miss him yet?”

“Fuck you, Caspar. I miss him every minute.” 

“Not what I meant. That was Sam five days before you came to pick him up at Stanford. He seemed… I never knew him when he was younger, you know? I think he spoke more tonight than I’ve ever heard him speak.”

“I miss the laughing,” Dean admitted. “The kid could laugh. He used to have this… joy, this wicked sense of humor to him. Of course that all went to hell when…” 

“When he went to Hell?” “No. Probably when he found out that I was going to Hell,” Dean admitted. “It was like… he couldn’t ever enjoy anything again. Not entirely.”

“He was so… tactile. You both were. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you touch each other more.” Kevin paused. “It was almost creepy, dude.”

“Yeah. Yeah, we used to be… I mean, we grew up, it’s not like we were a really affectionate family, you know? It’s what we had.” He shrugged. “It changed, you know? When I got out of Hell I couldn’t be near anyone for a while, and then I was angry. Then I was really angry. Then when he got out of Hell… well, he hasn’t been okay with a lot of physical contact since then. I’ve tried, man. Sometimes I just need to grab onto him and remind myself that he’s there, but I don’t want to make him feel worse, you know?” He rubbed at his face – definitely not wiping away tears, not in front of Kevin. “He was fine with physical contact from Amelia, though.”

“Not really,” the former prophet told him. “Not very often. They were both pretty broken, trying to hold each other together. But hey – whatever, right? It’s not like he’s got a body to be tactile with. Or a spirit to inhabit that body.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

“Hey – you did it to yourself.”

“He’d be dead if I hadn’t.” 

“He’s dead now, or worse than dead. Although maybe oblivion isn’t worse than death for him. I don’t know. I honestly don’t.”

“What’s the point of this, Kevin? Why are we in a cheap motel?”

“Right. That was Christmas past. All right, it was October, but whatever. This is Christmas present. This is you hunting a certain evil angel.” 

The door opened. Dean had the unpleasant sensation of watching himself rush in the door and throw his duffel bag on the bed. Only one bag this time, Dean noted, and when dream-Dean opened it bathrobe-Dean noticed that it contained only weapons. Crowley followed, a look of grim determination on his usually smarmy face. “You’re sure this will work?” dream-Dean demanded. 

“Course I’m sure. I’ve used it a bunch of times. We’re still agreed, right? I help you with Gadreel, you help me with Abaddon.”

“Right. Sure.”

Dean looked at Kevin. “I agreed to help Crowley with Abaddon?” 

“Looks like. I mean, why not?’ Kevin shrugged. “It’s kind of your fault that she got loose to unseat him, isn’t it?” 

Dream-Dean pulled a long-barreled pistol out of his duffel. “All right. Let’s do this.” The scene shifted. Now they were in a different room, standing in front of Metatron and Sam – no, Dean reminded himself. Not Sam, Sam was gone. This was the angel that had stolen Sam – the angel he’d basically given Sam over to, if he was being honest. Crowley had called him Gadreel. “Dean, you know you can’t do anything against us,” Metatron smirked. “You’re not going to do anything to that body, not while you don’t know where your brother actually is.” 

Dean shrugged. “Sam’s gone,” his dream-self replied. “Considering what happened the last time I tried to get him back I think I have to just accept the inevitable.” He pulled out the gun and fired twice – once at Gadreel, once at Metatron - then both he and Crowley ducked and closed their eyes. The resultant blast wave of light was almost blinding even with the proper precautions taken.

Dean grabbed Kevin this time. “Tell me that didn’t happen.” 

“Yeah. That’s you shooting your brother’s body with angel blade bullets. It’s not pretty. It’ll probably happen soon though.” He shrugged. 

“Can we get out of here?” Dean wanted to know. 

“Yeah.” Even ghosts could upchuck. Who knew?

When they re-appeared in the bunker Dean turned to his guide. “I didn’t even think you liked Sam. “

“I didn’t. Not until I died. You learn a lot about a lot of things when you die. Especially when you’re a prophet I guess. Like, I never knew how much we had in common. Turns out he never wanted me to know how much we had in common. He didn’t want to bring me down.” He shook his head ruefully. “I actually had a really good time with college-him. I had no idea that he had a sense of humor.” 

“I guess a few thousand years in the Cage will burn that out of you.”

“Maybe it’s still feeling guilty for existing after a few thousand years in the cage. I don’t know, though. Could be either.” The younger man got up. “Come on. One more stop.”

“Well, we’ve done Christmas past and Christmas present. I guess now we’ve got to do Christmas future.” He paused and turned back to Kevin, eyebrows drawn together. “How was Sam at Stanford at all Christmassy? It was October, for crying out loud?”

“I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to say something about how Sam was your whole Christmas and everything but whatever. It’s not like they give me a script or anything. Come on.”

Most of the bunker was dark. The dreaming pair made their way through the elegantly designed corridors – too elegantly designed for Dean’s tastes, but that was the Men of Letters for you – until they got to the library. Even this was dimly lit, far too dimly lit for reading. Dean sat alone, staring down a half-empty bottle of cheap rum like he was going to arm-wrestle it. “I see you still haven’t managed to figure out where the Christmas decorations are,” Kevin observed.

“I remember where they are just fine,” the inebriate snarled, and the dreamer remembered that most of the people in the dream could see him. “I ain’t going in there.”

Dean snorted at his dream self. “What, because there was so much personal left in there? Christ, the guy slept in a storage closet.” 

“Still smells like him,” 2023 Dean slurred. “Stuck my head in there once. Still had his hair on the pillow. Three of them, the weak ones. Weak hairs, couldn’t survive.” He giggled, a little hysterically, and went back to scowling at his bottle.

Dean turned to Kevin. “Okay, so this is my Christmas future? What did you think was going to happen to me without Sam?”

“You did just fine the last time Sam was dead.”

“I wasn’t ‘fine.’ And that was different. I didn’t do that to Sam.” 

“Didn’t you? Think about what drove him to do the things that he did, and think about what really got the whole Apocalypse thing started in the first place. But that’s not the point. Keep watching.”

“Watching a middle-aged me sit around drunk in his underwear isn’t exactly Christmassy, Kev.”

“I could probably find a bow to put on if you’re really lucky, sailor,” 2023 Dean sneered, taking a pull from his bottle. “You want?” 

Dean stepped back, repulsed. “Uh, no thanks. Already drank at the office.”

“Otherwise we wouldn’t be having this conversation, am I right?”

Oh yeah, this was him all right. “Yeah. Thanks though. You’re a good host.” 

“Yeah, I’m pretty awesome.” 

Two more figures walked into the room. Well, Charlie kind of trotted the way Charlie did. “Dean! Dean, oh my God!” She looked good, Dean decided. Older, and with a few new scars, but good. “It’s so good to see you!” She threw her arms around the older version of him. “Dude, when’s the last time you showered?”

“Dunno,” the older man said sullenly. “What day is it?”

“Christmas, Dean. It’s Christmas.” 

Dorothy cleared her throat. She looked great – incredibly well put together, a few grays but whatever. When they’d met he’d had a brief moment when he’d hoped she and Sam would hit it off, but maybe not. Apparently not, because she’d gone off with Charlie right away and Sam hadn’t shown much interest beyond curiosity. Sam hadn’t shown interest in much by then, except when he was faking it for Dean’s sake. “Dean,” she said gently, which was odd. He hadn’t thought she was capable of much in the way of gentleness. “Dean, we have good news. We’ve found Sam.”

2023 Dean stood up, then he fell down. The women exchanged glances, and then seemed to see Dean and Kevin for the first time. “Is he drunk?” Dorothy demanded in her more normal voice.

“He’s drunk,” the dreamer and the prophet replied in one voice. 

Charlie sighed and Dorothy rolled her eyes in exasperation. “We’re going to need him sober for this,” the latter said.

Charlie reached into her messenger bag. “Way ahead of you.” She pulled out a glass vial full of a sickly green liquid. “Dean, drink this.”

“‘S gonna make me sober?” When they nodded he crossed his arms over his chest and pouted. “Don’ wanna.” 

“Dude, they’re gonna make you,” Dean warned his older self. “And put some pants on, man. There are ladies present. They don’t want to see that.” 

2023 Dean took the potion. It made his eyes flash purple for some reason but when the color passed he was sober and miraculously not hung over. He still stank though. “Okay. Now that you’ve successfully killed my buzz, what’s brought you back to what’s left of Earth?” 

The women blinked but responded. “Dean,” Charlie said gently, reaching up and touching his face with her left hand, “we’ve found Sam.”

Both Deans’ jaws dropped. “You’ve what?” 

“We’ve found your brother. His spirit and his soul, anyway.” “It wasn’t easy,” Dorothy took over. “We just found little crumbs at first, like someone had just…” 

“Scattered his atoms across the universe?” Dean suggested through the ashes in his mouth.

“Thanks,” Dorothy smiled briefly. “Yes. Once we found those fragments and identified them as Sam, Charlie was able to create an algorithm to track them and then together we fabricated a system to draw them in and collect them. It’s taken ten years, Dean, but we finally did it.” She reached into her own bag and pulled out a stoppered beaker. Its light, swirling and pure – could have lit up all of Cincinnati. “All we have to do is return him to his body.”

2023 Dean froze. “Can’t.”

“What do you mean, ‘can’t?” Charlie challenged.

“I mean I burned it. Hunter’s funeral. Wasn’t much left of it anyway. The angel possessing him never healed him anyway. All your hard work….”

The women looked down for a moment. “All right. Well. Let’s… um… see what he wants to do, I guess?” Dorothy hesitated. 

“What do you mean?” 2023 Dean asked. “I’m right here.” 

“Not you, dumbass.” Charlie shook her head. “Sam. He’s in this mess because someone decided that their needs outweighed his. I’m not going to make that mistake again.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a laptop and some kind of a strange USB device. She inverted the beaker over the device and after a moment Sam’s image appeared on the screen. 

He had a polite smile for Dorothy and for Charlie – not the real smile of Stanford, but something that passed for pleasant. He didn’t look materially different than he had when he’d been alive. He even had that sickly, deep bone-weariness, only how could he have that when he was nothing but a soul? “Hi Charlie,” he greeted. “Dorothy.” He noticed the Deans and Kevin. “Dean.” He tilted his head to the side. “Kevin. Afterlife’s been good to you, man.” 

“Sam. Wish I could say the same. Library of Alexandria isn’t the same without you. Ash showed it to me but I’m pretty sure you can read more of the languages than I can.” 

The computerized image shook its head. “No no no. It doesn’t matter. It’s just another equation up there, man. Here, write this down.” His face disappeared, replaced by a series of mathematical… babble that Dean was pretty sure contained at least six different languages. “Got it?” 

“How come Ash doesn’t know that one? He’s been up there longer than you,” Kevin chuckled. 

“Thing about being possessed is that it’s a two way street. I stole it out of Lucifer’s mind. Most of what an archangel is – a human mind can’t even comprehend it, much less access it or touch it. It’ll drive you insane to even try. But little things like that? Sure. So… what’s going on?” Dean shook his head. Of course. Fate of the world was on the line and there’s little brother cherry picking in Lucifer’s brain. He guessed that was what came of being raised a thief from birth.

“Well, we’d hoped to be able to return you to your body,” Dorothy commented. “Unfortunately you apparently don’t have one to return to.” 

The soul huffed. “Well, I guess that figures. Thanks for trying.” 

“So, you need to figure out what you want to do now,” Charlie continued. “We can bring you back to Oz and you can continue like this. I mean, you seem to be good like this, right? You’re in good command of everything, you know what you’re doing and all.” 

“It’s kind of… permanent, isn’t it?” he winced. “And really vulnerable to outside interference. If someone else gets control of the machine…”

“You could probably release yourself into the computers of Earth,” Dean suggested. “Become the real-life Ghost in the Machine.” 

“Dean, you’re responsible for me being like this in the first place. You don’t really get a say.” 

The older Winchester felt his face go red. “Hey! I saved you!”

“You tricked me into giving a false consent – I mean, even Lucifer wasn’t that bad, Dean, and he and Michael tortured me for five thousand years. Then you gaslit me. That’s not saving me. Then my soul and spirit got scattered across the universe. I don’t feel very saved.” He turned his gaze to the ladies. “Anyway. “

“Well, we could bring you back to Oz and make you a new body.” 

“Like the Tin Man,” Sam surmised. “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. Can’t you just… let me go?”

“What, just… let you die?” Charlie objected. 

“I’m already dead. Let me pass on to wherever. My bones have been burned, I’m pretty much done. I appreciate all that you’ve done for me, but all the possible solutions pretty much involve… well, permanence, and I can’t really have that. I need to go where no one can be hurt because of me, and where I can’t hurt anyone else.” He looked down, and then looked up again. Even in electronic form Sam still had those damn puppy dog eyes. No one could withstand them. Archangels couldn’t withstand them. Two humans? No way.

Dean, of course, had never been able to resist them. Then again, he didn’t have a lot of options here. 

“All right.” No one looked at all happy, but Dorothy nodded a few times. “Let’s do this outside. I wouldn’t want you to be stuck in the bunker.” 

He gave a little chuckle. “No. Listen, since I’m not going to have a chance to say this later, thank you. Thank you both for everything.” 

A tear dripped from Charlie’s eye. “You’re welcome, Sam.” They disconnected the bottle from the USB and walked up the stairs and out of the bunker.

Kevin turned to Dean as the bunker faded away. They were alone in the darkness now. “All right. Do you get it now?” 

“Get what?” Dean tried to punch a wall but all he got were shadows.

“You didn’t save Sam. You wanted to but you didn’t. You hurt him. By ignoring his wishes and his needs you prolonged his suffering and you hurt him and you killed him. Your intentions were good. So were Sam’s when he started drinking demon blood. It doesn’t matter. You loved him, but you didn’t appreciate him while you had him.” The ghost sighed. “I don’t think any of us did really. To include himself.”

“What do I do?”

“Excuse me?” 

“I have to fix it. You wouldn’t have come here unless there was something I could do to fix it!” 

“That I don’t know. Hell, I could just be a figment of your drunken imagination. But I think you should start trying to figure it out.”

Dean woke with a start, stone-cold sober.


End file.
